Paranormal Misdirection (Sasha Urban Series: Book 5)

by Dima Zales

  “You think Lola could be behind the attempts?” I look at him for signs of mirth and find none. “She certainly wasn’t the person behind the mask and gloves—too small. Also, even if she really is the jealous type, why single me out? She has just as much justification to feel jealous of Felix or Ariel. And, though he’s not here, Fluffster had—”

  “You have a way of making an impression on people,” Nero says and looks at the staircase again. “I think Lola and I need to have a quick chat.”

  “But they might be—”

  Without listening to my warning, Nero stalks after the reunited pair.

  The chances of him interrupting a passionate encounter are great, but why should I care? Nero can see as many naked women as he wants, with them in any kind of—

  I spot Darian walking toward the exit.

  Demonstratively holding a pack of cigarettes, he sneaks a look in my direction.

  As soon as he notices my gaze, he speeds up his pace.

  How interesting. He wasn’t paying any attention to me until Nero left.

  Without much deliberation, I let my legs carry me in the same direction. I can always find seer-related questions for Darian.

  As soon as I go through the large doors, I spot him standing there, coughing his lungs out.

  “You don’t really smoke,” I say on a hunch. “You just wanted an excuse to be alone with me, didn’t you?”

  “You’re starting to think like a seer,” he says with his signature British accent after he catches his breath. “Our window for privacy is rather small, so I must get to the point quickly.”

  “Hold on,” I say. “How are you even here? Didn’t Nero warn you to stay away from me?”

  “I’m here to pay my respects.” He somberly nods in the general direction of the wake. “Even Nero wouldn’t be so gauche as to deny me this. I’d known Rose much longer than he had.”

  “I see,” I say carefully, not thrilled at the idea of him using Rose’s funeral to further his agenda. “There was an easier way for you to speak to me. You could’ve accepted my Headspace summons.”

  “I couldn’t do that.” He puffs on the cigarette and blows out the smoke without letting it reach his lungs—like an actor, or a cigar aficionado. “I need every ounce of my power to prevent the catastrophe you’re working so hard to bring about.”

  I blink at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw the two of you in there.” He tosses the cigarette on the ground and stomps on it viciously. “Very chummy indeed.”

  “Me and Nero? Chummy?”

  “I’ve warned you.” Darian’s green eyes seem to stare into my brain. “You can’t choose him. Death permeates every future where you do.”

  This again?

  I don’t need seer powers to know that falling for Nero would lead to a disaster, but having Darian put it like that bothers me on some deep, visceral level.

  Whatever choices I do or don’t make should be mine and have nothing to do with Darian’s gloomy prophecies—or Chester’s powers.

  The door behind me creaks open.

  Twisting on my heel, I gape at the newcomer.

  I’ve heard of “speak of the devil,” but this is “think of the devil.”

  “You,” Darian grits out.

  “Me.” Chester walks out and stands between us. “You can never see me coming, can you?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “This is a private conversation,” Darian says, swiftly recovering his composure.

  “Oh, boo hoo.” Chester’s lips curve in a devilish smile. “As luck would have it, I happened to be passing by the door when I got the urge to put my ear to it. You were in the middle of misleading Sasha.” He nods at me. “Proceed.”

  “I’m not misleading anyone.” Darian looks at me. “In the futures where you choose Nero, you die. No exceptions. The only future where you live is where you’re with me.”

  “How romantic and noble,” Chester says, every syllable dripping with sarcasm. “You risk Nero’s wrath to let Sasha know all this so selflessly.” He turns to me. “I’ll eat my shoes if there isn’t something in it for him. Besides gaining you as arm candy, of course. If I were a betting man—and I certainly am—I’d say the future with the two of you together is the only one where this weasel survives.”

  Darian’s chin momentarily drops to his chest as he tries to avoid my gaze. Catching himself, he looks guilelessly at me, but it’s too late. Having studied poker as part of my card magic education, I’m very familiar with “tells,” and I think I just discovered Darian’s.

  “So it’s true,” I say, not bothering to hide my disappointment. “This was never about love. You’re trying to save your own skin.”

  Darian opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again.

  “Having trouble manipulating her with me here?” Chester sing-songs. Turning to me, he says, “Usually, he scans every future for a person’s reaction to whatever he might say, then tweaks his words accordingly. That is the real reason he refuses your Headspace summons; he can’t foresee what you might say there.”

  Darian’s poker tell betrays him yet again—which means he has been looking into the future to find the best words to use on me, a bit like how I found the combination to Nero’s safe the other day.

  “Why are you here?” I ask Chester. “Don’t tell me it’s to look after my interests.”

  “Good question,” Darian says, and trying to hypnotize me with his deep green eyes, he takes a step closer, invading my personal space.

  The smell of bergamot hits my nostrils, and as I stare at his lips, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like, that future he so desperately wants.

  “She’s immune to your charms, such as they are,” Chester tells him gleefully. “Nero is better in—”

  “Shut your mouth.” Darian’s hands ball into fists as he spins around and takes a menacing step toward Chester.

  “Go ahead.” Chester turns his cheek. “Break the no-hostilities pact. End your miserable existence here and now.”

  Darian stops with a clear effort of will.

  “I’m still waiting for your answer,” I tell Chester.

  He rubs his chin thoughtfully, giving me the impression that he too is trying to say just the right thing to get me to play ball.

  The phrase “make a deal with the devil” loops in my head like a broken record played backward.

  “Honestly, I’m just happy to spite him,” he says after a moment. “But you’re right. I do have a secondary agenda. I want you to do me a favor.”

  “What kind of favor?” I ask warily, remembering Baba Yaga.

  “Sasha, don’t do it. Don’t help him with anything.” Darian looks at me pleadingly. “He’s tried to kill you while I’ve done nothing but watch over you.”

  Clearly, not seeing my possible replies has led Darian to make a huge mistake. I loathe the idea of being “watched over.” It means Darian can meddle in my life whenever he doesn’t like something I’m about to do—say, go rescue my father.

  “Now now, Darian,” Chester says, turning his cheek again. “Either hit me or leave so we can have some privacy.”

  Darian doesn’t hit him, but doesn’t move either.

  “You might want to hurry up,” Chester says, his grin stretching from ear to ear. “I have a feeling that Nero’s about to get lucky and walk out to see you talking to Sasha.”

  Teeth clenched, Darian storms back into the castle, slamming the door behind him.

  Chester waits a few seconds, then opens the door—probably to make sure Darian isn’t eavesdropping on us the way Chester himself has done.

  “So.” He faces me. “I’d like to keep my daughter alive.”

  “What?” Is this a weird joke? He does seem the type to make those.

  “You were there when Nero told me she submitted to you,” Chester says. “Let’s not play games.”

  “I’m not.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I just don’t know what you’re
talking about.”

  “You now have the power to make Roxy fight your battles for you.” Chester looks uncharacteristically serious. “And you’re a trouble magnet. It would be only a matter of time before you’d get her killed.”

  I finally begin to understand. Roxy did “submit” to me, but until he just explained it, I didn’t know the implications.

  Have her fight my battles? A teen? A teen who hates my guts? That wasn’t ever going to happen—but then again, he doesn’t need to know that.

  “Well well,” I say, imitating his manner of speaking. “That is one huge ask.” I mimic the way he rubs his chin. “I guess I can be amiable, but I want something of proportional value in return.”

  Chester’s mouth tightens. “Fine. What are your terms?”

  “I want to learn about your power,” I say, even though what I really want to say is, “I want to learn how to thwart your power.”

  “Education.” His brown eyes gleam happily, and I wonder if he expected to give away more than just this. “So long as we keep this a secret from Nero, I can teach you anything you want about probability manipulation.” He pointedly extends his hand.

  “And you will fight a fight for me,” I blurt out instead of shaking his hand. “That is, if I need you to do so.”

  “What?” He drops his hand.

  “This is a bargain and you know it,” I say, feeling more confident. “Roxy would’ve fought as many fights as I wished, but you’d only owe me one.”

  “I’m far more powerful than my daughter,” he says. “I was on the Council—”

  “Which is why I’m asking for your help just the one time.”

  He looks at me intently, then relaxes slightly. “You drive a hard bargain. I agree.” He extends his hand to me again.

  I clasp his baby-smooth hand in a firm grip that I’ve practiced for interviews and give it a shake.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to put all this in writing later,” Chester says when we both let go.

  “I’ve heard written Cognizant contracts are unbreakable,” I say warily. “How does that work?”

  “Contracts piggyback on the magic of the Mandate.” He nods toward each of our auras. “If you break them, you get the same fun effects as if you broke the Mandate.”

  That does sound pretty binding. I’ll never forget Ariel bleeding from every orifice when she merely tried to speak about the existence of Cognizant to the pre-Rite me.

  “All right,” I say, “but I hope you can tell me at least a little bit about your powers before the written contract is in place.”

  “I can do that,” he says. “Though the bulk of the lessons will have to wait until Bert and I return from our safari next week.”

  “Safari?” I raise an eyebrow. “Bert?”

  “In Africa.” Chester rolls his eyes. “As to Bertie, you’ve met him already. He so loves his—”

  “You mean the lion?” I stare at him as though the lion might pounce on me at any second.

  “Do you know any other Berts?”

  “Okay. So you’re taking your pet lion on a safari in Africa?”

  “I know. I spoil him rotten.” Chester grins. “You saw him, though. Who can say no to those—”

  “How do you even go about taking a lion to Africa? Logistically, I mean. Do you walk through the Otherlands with him on a leash or—”

  “Bertie doesn’t like leashes and can’t do gates,” Chester says. “He walks by my side. We fly first class, a seat for me and a seat for Bert.”

  “Your lion just flies on a plane?”

  “And walks around the airport without anyone being the wiser.” He grins again. “Looks like it’s time for the first lesson. See, I can make it so that, by lucky happenstance, not a single human will look in Bert’s direction as we walk, or when he sits in his seat. As long as he behaves himself—which I’ve taught him to do—he’ll be as good as invisible.”

  “Wow.” I rub the back of my neck. “You do have a really cool power.”

  “I do. And here is another demonstration.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a deck of cards.

  At first, I don’t react, but then it hits me: aside from magicians, it’s not normal for people to carry decks of cards in their pockets like this.

  “I was lucky to have those in my pocket in case I need them,” Chester explains nonchalantly. “Here.” He hands me the deck. “Shuffle, please.”

  I mix the cards with all the skill of a card shark as Chester burns my hands with his gaze.

  “Now spread them,” he says when I’m done.

  I spread the cards and gasp.

  The deck is in new deck order, from King to Ace, with each suit separated as though the cards never got shuffled since their original printing.

  “There are fifty-two factorial permutations of shuffled deck orders,” I mutter. “The chances of actually shuffling the cards into this order are—”

  “The same as for any other random-looking order of cards,” Chester says. “And thus, my power can influence an outcome I desire—assuming I focus on it and am not distracted by—”

  The door behind him opens, and a monk comes out with ceremonial robes draped over his forearm and two masks in his hands.

  “Ah.” Chester grabs the baby-chick yellow robe and the mask with a psychotic grin that reminds me of the Joker. “It’s time.”

  I take the purple robe and the mask depicting a blind woman with an eye in the forehead.

  The monk nods and goes back into the building. Chester starts to follow.

  “Wait.” I fish out my phone, create a new contact with Chester as the name, and hand the device to him. “Put in your number so we can arrange the lessons.”

  He types in the digits, gives me back the device, and puts on the mask and robe.

  I do the same.

  When we walk in, the room looks ready for an Eyes Wide Shut orgy.

  “How come some people’s masks are so bland?” I whisper to Chester as we pass a number of Cognizant in gray robes and nondescript masks.

  “Some don’t have the kind of powers anyone bothered to make specialized masks for,” he replies. “And some—like your Mentor—just want to hide what their powers are.”

  I try to locate Nero to verify Chester’s words, but telling people apart in this masked crowd is an exercise in futility.

  Everyone is staring at the stage in the front of the room, and I join them.

  An unmasked Dr. Hekima stands there, wearing a red robe that makes him look like a cardinal.

  He looks somber as he stares at the back of the room.

  We follow his gaze and see four monks approaching the stage, carrying something. Though a tall man in front of me blocks my view, I know what the object will be before they put it on a stone slab.

  A baseball-sized lump blocks my throat as I step to the side to get a better view.

  An intricate coffin made of polished redwood sits in front of me.

  Moisture blurs my vision and anguish squeezes my chest as I contemplate the bitter finality of this moment.

  Inside that box is the dead body of—

  There’s a crashing noise behind us.

  As I start to turn, I realize two things, both related to my visions.

  One: seeing that coffin has just gone down exactly like in my funeral vision the other day, right down to my thoughts.

  And two: the sound might be that of an exploding bazooka rocket.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Instead of a rocket, I see the ancient Hogwarts-like doors break into pieces and realize the cause of this destruction is far deadlier.

  It’s Vlad.

  He’s standing in the rubble with fists clenched and a savage expression on his face. He looks ready to kill and rip things to shreds. Then again, I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped to his knees and started sobbing.

  A monk clutching a black robe and a mask with fangs bravely rushes forward. But when he sees the look on Vlad’s face, the man simply tosses
the clothing to him.

  The objects plop uncaught at the vampire’s feet.

  “Vlad.” Dr. Hekima’s voice carries through the room as though he’s speaking into a high-end microphone. “I’m glad you’re here for this. Most of the words Rose left are for you.”

  At the mention of her name, Vlad looks like he was slapped.

  “I’ll proceed when you’re ready,” Hekima says. “Take your time.”

  Without saying a word, Vlad bends down to pick up the mask and the garment. Moving as though it all weighs a ton, he dresses and hides his face, then nods at Hekima.

  “As many of you know, Rose left a will and testament, part of which is this,” Hekima announces. “She wanted me to read to you her last words—only she wanted me to deliver these words using my power.” He pauses—I guess to let the idea sink in. “Anyone not wishing me to use my powers on them, please raise your hands now, and you will simply hear me speak Rose’s words.”

  Not a single hand goes up.

  “So be it,” Hekima says and raises his arms dramatically, like a symphony conductor. Pulsing red energy streams from his fingers into everyone’s heads, and in the next moment, a much younger Rose is standing on the stage, wearing a beautiful summer dress. Her makeup is perfectly done, her jewelry is impeccable, and she radiates health and vitality.

  She must’ve asked Hekima to turn back the clock by a few decades.

  “Hello, dears,” the illusion of Rose says in an achingly familiar breezy voice. “If you’re hearing this, I must be gone.” She determinedly walks to the front of the stage, a Mona Lisa smile dancing on her lips. “I’ve had a nice life. A full life.” She stops at the very edge and looks around the room until she makes eye contact with everyone. “I appreciate each and every one of you here.” Her gaze shifts to the back of the room, where Vlad is standing unmoving, as if turned to stone.

  “Vlad, my love,” she says softly. “I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling, but I’m certain that this is hard for you.” She sighs. “We’ve always known this moment would come, but I know that doesn’t make it any easier. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I had lost you first.” Two fat tears roll down each of her blush-covered cheeks. “I need you to do something for me, my love. I need you to not grieve for too long. I need you to move on. I need you to—”